Crossfire
by fallenleeves
Summary: After Zorya, Shepard confronts the man responsible for breaking the chain of command, and isn't happy with what she finds. Will her thoughts change when anger turns to passion?  Can such a volatile combination even survive in the face of the Reapers?
1. Hellfire

**PART ONE.**

_Sometimes death changes people,  
Wilts rotten heartstrings and first impressions,  
And though life grows from the ashes_, _the void left  
Can only be crossed by someone who has seen it firsthand,_

_Someone caught in the _Crossfire_ of life and death themselves.  
_

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* * *

Chapter 1  
**

~  
Shepard was pissed, livid even, and it had nothing to do with anything she'd hope to be in such a volatile mood over. No, instead it had to do with a recent addition that had taken one step too many in overstepping her authority.

Zaeed Massani.

The man had yet to be part of her crew for longer than a month and had not only nearly gotten her squad killed - he'd blatantly crossed her command. _She_ was Commander Shepard, Savior of the Citadel, the goddamned Hero of Galactic Space that had somehow defied death with little more than a few leftover scars and a helluvalot of emotional baggage. But that was another matter.

She'd never pegged Massani as problematic. He was a veteran mercenary – thrown into hell one too many times to know the difference anymore, and burnt to a golden bronze of steel determination and harsh cynicism, but someone who knew the ropes well enough not to cross them when it came down to it. When it came down to credits, or so Shepard had thought.

Zorya had proven her wrong. Had proven just how flimsy her chain of command could be if not everyone was on board. She _relied _on her squad, relied on her _team _to work together and make it through every obstacle no matter the odds, no matter the subject matter. She barely had enough of a team at the moment to afford a rogue squad member… The cost was too great.

It wasn't even the fate of entire galactic civilization that had her so angry though. After all, the man had cooled a _very _small bit of her ire when he'd grudgingly admitted his folly, but he'd still gone much too far to be met with a simple sit-down chit-chat to discuss his failing to oblige and adhere to her command.

No, as Commander and Captain it was her duty to put him in his place – the right way. It had to be done, and she wasn't looking forward to it.

Slamming a fist against the sideboard of her private cabin, Shepard stood swiftly and headed towards the elevator, punching the button harder than necessary. Her hand thrummed faintly but she didn't feel the pain as the elevator hummed to weary life.

Massani had made her look a fool.

He'd stripped her of her Command by undermining her, had gone and put her squad directly in the line of fire on the fat chance that an explosion would turn the tides from against them to for them, and for what?

True, it had worked, but Shepard had to be realistic – the man considered himself a one-man army and his high risk ventures might have gotten him where he was today, but not anymore – now his all-out solo risks were precisely the problem.

He was on a team now.  
And revenge came second.

Under normal circumstances, she would have understood with the clarity that came with getting a second shot at life - hell, she could openly admit that she wasn't going to kick some collector ass just for the sake of the galaxy anymore but...

It wasn't all about him anymore, the great Veteran Mercenary that had lived through everything. He'd have to drop the baggage of twenty year old revenge or leave. Shepard couldn't accept that kind of disobedience again.

But that wasn't all of it. The whole reason she was so … so _furious_ was not entirely because of what he'd done, but because of what'd he'd said.

As soon as he'd said, "_this is MY mission,"_ on Zorya he'd snapped the thin rein that was Shepard's recently flagging temper before proceeding to blow the place to hell – admittedly, it _had _been his mission, once. Minus the miniscule fact that when he had joined _her_ squad, on _her_ team, and had asked _her_ to chart a course there, he should have known that as soon as they'd all set foot on that damnable piece of rock and jungle that it was no longer just his mission.

It was their mission.

And as a team, even personal missions become a matter of everyone's concern, and it made her blood boil and her muscles twitch in the desperate urge to throttle the damnable mercenary for not realizing that – former blue suns founder or not, no one broke ranks in such a way, not without hearing about it directly from her.

She exhaled a shaky breath even while her knuckles grew white at the thought. There was just something about the man that got under her skin.

_Of all the stupid_ –

The elevator door opened with a whoosh, and a marine scrambled out of her way as she stalked decisively down towards where Massani holed up. Fists clenched, she swiveled right, biotics dancing, teeth bared at the thought of how well the place might suit him if she'd had it in her to think it. Refuse with refuse?

She snorted in blatant disgust.

She'd had many different crew members over the years, and the dossiers supplied to her for this mission certainly promised more but …

Zaeed wasn't one of the Illusive Man's original dossiers; he was hired under the radar for a large sum of credits – a mere add-on that had only _happened_ to withstand certain death from a shot to the head.

Shepard scoffed, she didn't give a damn about what he'd lived through or done. His reputation and how many mercs he'd killed was as good to her as dirt if he got her crew killed - she didn't give a shit that he'd survived a hole in the head; he was just another mercenary fighting for credits instead of reasons. He was a bloody fool.

The door to the Cargo Hold opened automatically as she approached and her electric blue orbs blazed as she regarded the cause of her current angry predicament – muscled arms, scarred facade, and smug attitude. She swore she'd seen the subtle twitch of his lip as she approached him and her anger increased tenfold.

He'd wanted to leave all those people to die.  
What an ass.

His jaw unclenched.

Cutting whatever he was about to say off, Shepard allowed her momentum to bring her smack in front of him, slamming him up against the bulkheads, fists pulsing blue violently, eyes thunderstorms over an open ocean.

"I swear Massani, ever pull something like that again and I'll –"

He had the nerve to continue looking smug, unfazed by her rage.

"And you'll what, fire me?" He said snidely, lips twisting darkly, not even bothering to try to push Shepard off.

"Put a fucking bullet in my head Shepard? 'Cuz I'll tell you something _sweetheart_," Their faces were close enough for Shepard to feel the raggedness of his warm breath, the need to get a rise out of her, the remarkable twist of his lips, and the milky blue of the eye that must have been affected by the gunshot to the head.

"Been there done that."

He ground the words out, harsh, differently hued eyes dueling with hers.

"You're the goddamn reason Vido got away, I was so goddamn close to that fucking bastard, and you and your _goddamn_ morals had to get in the way."

He snarled, hands clenched near his sides while hers were fisted in his collar – both focused solely on each other, uncaring as her biotics danced over exposed skin, burning and twisting.

"I don't give a damn where you've been Massani. Vido has it coming and he knows it, but I won't have my crew turning into monsters in pursuit of one," Shepard snarled back, eyes flashing, grip tightening as though to strangle him right through his shirt front.

"You put my crew in danger like that again, and I'll put a bullet right through that thick skull of yours myself." The thought flickered enticingly, vividly before her marine trained eyes.

"And this time, I'll make sure it goes all the way through."

Her lips twisted to harsh lines, eyes glittering.

"Try me." He mocked her, _mocked_ her.

The bloom of fury was so sudden he didn't have time to prepare for the biotic slap that caught him across his scarred cheek. Grunting as he was let go of roughly, the blue suns co-founder straightened begrudgingly to wipe the trickle of blood that was working its way over his split lip, the scent of iron a sharp tang in the otherwise sterile cargo hold.

"You're a fucking bitch Shepard, you know that, right?"

Again he underestimated her, any other woman would have followed this up with further retaliation but to his surprise, she laughed, a breathy, rough sound of sarcasm and amusement, deadly fire and poison – this was the famed Commander Shepard after all. He now knew why Cerberus was willing to spend billions to bring her back. The bitch was good.

Veteran eyes drifted over her appreciatively, watching the way her chest heaved and the subtle way the blue pulse of biotics flickered angrily around her. Zaeed had always known how to play with fire; had done so often and with a certain type of eagerness that came with seeing if he could still taunt the flame and come out unscathed. But this time was different, this time he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't get burned, _severely_.

He shifted imperceptibly, readying himself as she began to speak again.

"Takes one to know one, Zaeed… and if I'm not mistaken…" Her eyes slid half closed, words breathy. She was pointedly antagonizing him, mouth sliding into an expression of haughty ire, "It takes a certain type of _bitch_ to whine about shit that happened twenty years ago."

She sneered, lips curling in an attempt to further goad him to retaliate, to react - but it was her turn to be caught off guard as he charged her with a cry of anger, feeling the burn of bruises forming as her back hit the surveillance table with an audible crack before she was vying against him for the upper hand, weapons clattering to the floor.

Her muscles tightened, using the force of his momentum to pull him forwards, hoping to put him off balance. Her back smashed against the table again, their arms grappling as she ducked beneath a fist and shouldered him stiffly, grating her teeth against the pain.

She ended up with her back against the bulkheads, a hand on the gun at his lean hip while the other was wrapped around the tattooed wrist at her throat.

"You have no, goddamn, fucking right, Shepard."

Zaeed said. His voice was hoarse, a broken hiss as he ignored the gun at his abdomen, raging at the spectre so much he shook and she could almost admit to feeling bad about provoking him.

Almost.

"You have the goddamn nerve to discredit the hell that I've been living for the past twenty years?" His face drew closer to hers, so much so that she could have run her tongue along the scar on his cheek if she'd wanted to, or spit in his face. "You've got guts, I'll give you that." The thumb at her pulse drew downward, his hand almost unbearably warm on her skin as she shoved the barrel further into his hip, her pulse quickening imperceptibly.

"I don't need guts to deal with you, Zaeed." She hissed back, eyes continuing to clash as her nails sunk into the arm pinning her to the wall.

"Oh yeah?" The mercenary's voice was laced with tangible disbelief and something akin to amusement.

"Then what in holy hell do you need, Shepard?" He demanded, grip slackening momentarily on her throat as his eyes searched hers.

Something pulsed unobtrusively between them then, something slow and lingering that flickered across Shepard's gaze before converting into sharp recognition before it vanished, replaced by a slow, dangerous smile that made his stomach clench and his blood run hot as she whispered, "_This," _and breached the few centimeters between them, touching her lips to his.

Zaeed started as though struck, his heart beating faster as their lips broke apart.

Shepard's eyes widened, floored by her own actions. She tried in vain to pull back, but was prevented by his hand still gripped around her neck from squirming out from under his grasp, and like hell he was going to allow her to back out on this now, no, oh no, she had the goddamn nerve to start all of this, he'd burn in hell before he'd back out now.

He breached the space between them again, head bent to hers as he let his lips drift over hers tantalizingly, tasting metal and fire, tightening his fingers around her seemingly fragile neck. Her muscles twitched, forcing his eyes from those damnable lips back to her eyes, head tilted slightly as he observed the swirling blue; a wry expression goading her.

"What's the matter Shepard, _scared_?" He breathed, smirking. By all rights he figured he should have a bullet in his liver by now, and the only reason why he didn't was because she valued him as a crew member more than he had originally thought. Zaeed wasn't born yesterday, he knew when the gamble was higher than the bet that he'd make it out alive, but that didn't mean anything to a gambler at heart, and any involvement with Shepard threw all bets out the window - engineer Donnelly had learned that the hard way.

He didn't give a damn though - he was too goddamn selfish to pass something like this up –it wouldn't last, couldn't last anyways. And it had been far too long since anyone had ever pissed him off and turned him on so completely.

Her posture shifted under his scrutiny, and he realized with the same clench of gut, that the dangerous smile was back again, the spectre's eyes creased in narrow, azure slits, mouth twitching mockingly.

"Massani, I think we can both attest, that there are far more things worth being afraid over."

Shepard's tongue darted out to wet her lips slowly, as though deciding something, and he found he could do nothing but watch, hand at her throat, her gun at his pelvis – a stalemate. She knew he wasn't going to pass this up, his pupils were dilated – and for the life of her, she couldn't think straight when confronted with their mingled breaths, the way his arm was wrapped around her and the way his smirk said there was no backing out.

Her eyes shifted away from his briefly, a decision already unconsciously formed.  
She did know how to play this game.

The blue of her irises swirled with gray, and when they finally greeted his again, the intensity Zaeed saw made his heart thud and his muscles tighten.

He would learn later, that this was the one look that would doom him, but he was far too gone in the sensation of his gut twisting sharply at her slanted lashes and her breasts brushing against his chest for him to think of anything else.

"Kiss me." She said.


	2. Burning

_Please leave a review with your thoughts on how it's going._  
_ If Zaeed seems to get out of character do tell ;0_

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**Chapter 2**

Zaeed vaguely thought he heard the distinct sound of the gun at his hip falling to the floor before he was awash in the sense of _her_ hand at the nape of his neck, dragging him to her.

He was wary - he had no idea where this was coming from, what her game was – why she had come at all, fists flying for it to end as wildly beating pulses, hot skin, and the hard-on inspiring scent of adrenaline and iron.

But he wasn't complaining.

His larger hand slipped to frame the side of her porcelain face, mapping the little nicks and scars, head bent to run his tongue over perfect lips, voicing a low growl of approval. His thumb brushed the pulse at her throat, discolored orbs scanning hers one last time for a measure of acquiescence before taking rough possession of her mouth as he felt her fingers dig deeply into the back of his scalp, leaving half-moon crescents in their wake.

Zaeed knew he was brutal, coarse, and profane all in a single day, but he'd always been able to congratulate himself for not being _completely_ masochistic - no matter how sadistic and twisted he could be at the end of a bloody day. But _damn_ if this wasn't worth whatever shit came after.

Nothing this good ever came this easy.

She bit his lip and sucked, lips twisting triumphantly as she heard him growl at the sharp burst of iron as she harassed the damage she'd caused earlier. Her lips curled against his as she felt his muscular body press her fully against the bulkhead, grinding together in unison.

The hand framing her face traveled to cup the back of her head, tangling in her hair as their mouths worked against each other in harsh crescendos, tongues continuing the duel they'd been fighting earlier. He tasted of leather and jungle - the underlying tang of metal, and she of feminine spice and burnt flora.

Neither found the need to stop as Zaeed's impossibly warm hand found the edge of her shirt and slipped under it, eliciting a hot wave of tingling biotics and a gasp of shock from the Commander of the SR2 Normandy as his fingers found their way to her spine, brushing in slow, deliberate circles - trailing up and down as she pressed further into him, heedless of her marine trained conscience that was blatantly telling her this was _not_ one of her most intelligent decisions.

They knew that this momentary lapse wouldn't last - couldn't last, knowing when it ended the rolls of commander and hard ass mercenary would descend faster than either of them would have liked to admit. Too fast for Shepard to ever admit.

Instead, as though in defiance of herself; Shepard gripped the hair at the nape of Zaeed's neck and tugged forcefully, pulling his rough, pliable lips even more into the kiss so that their teeth nearly clashed and their bodies were sharp planes against each others.

It felt good, too good.

His body was sturdy against hers, his muscled arms and built chest as admirable as the tattoos that wrapped around the powerful arm that was undoing her with simple geometric shapes. She was astounded by how quickly things fell apart between them, heated and spiraled - and damn if she could fathom why she'd started this at all. She didn't want to confront whatever this was, whatever would now lie between them – but she knew she would have to. She'd come here to do what was right, and no matter how right _this_ felt.

Zaeed Massani was an ass.

She'd have to remind herself of that after she removed her tongue from his mouth.

Her mind cheerfully informed her that that could wait for later.  
Right now, the feel of his tanned skin against her own and the magnetism of the man's body was too much of a distraction to warrant any sort of guilty conscience.

She drew her hand down the length of his face, brushing and scrapping against the bristled stubble of his jaw when they finally broke apart again, breaths heavy as their eyes lingered.

His mouth began to twitch, a smirk beginning to inch its way across face, eyes glowing in the dim light of the cargo hold. Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward, head tilted as she drew her tongue slowly against his lower lip, their eyes still keeping their burning connection.

Shepard dipped her tongue between the half-parted seal of his lips to slide it against his teeth, sensually, letting the hand not buried in his cropped hair to drift to his hip, lazily dancing against the rough fabric of his pants before drifting up and under, fingertips gliding over the contradiction of hard muscle and soft skin that she found beneath his shirt.

He exhaled.

And the kiss broke as Zaeed shoved a knee roughly between her legs, both breathing heavily, his lips marking blazing trails along her jaw line as she arched in pleasure, suppressing moans and ragged breaths as his calloused fingers worked their way up her ribcage. They brushed just beneath the swell of her breast before they paused, continuing to draw circles on her smooth skin.

She pulled his head back up to her, growling against his lips as she rocked against him, he hissing an exhalation as he took her bottom lip between his teeth, the fingers in her silken hair guiding her closer to him as the hand along her ribcage slipped beneath the thin fabric beneath her shirt.

Her reaction was violent, but remarkable.

She flushed, her cry harsh yet soft as her body jerked, bumping unintentionally into the surveillance table and displacing Zaeed's prized krogan helmet which proceeded to fall to the slate floor with an obnoxiously _loud_ BANG that knocked both of them back to their senses. They broke away from one another, only their heavy pants filling the silence of the room.

Neither of them tried to make eye contact.

It lasted for several long moments.

The dragging silence was broken by Zaeed, voice thick and hoarse as he grappled for composure in the now stagnant, awkward space.

"Shepard I – I ... don't know what the hell that was but…"

His brows were drawn together, creased as the sluggish return of clarity began to override his physical desires.

He returned to the original reason of this whole mess, his mind too busy running circuits he'd thought he'd fried long ago to properly process anything else but the tendrils of the familiar ground that granted him control.

It allowed him to slip reluctantly back into the guise of the profane mercenary as he tried in vain to erase the feel of her skin under his fingertips, her mouth working against his, her hand slipping -

He cut the train of thought off ruthlessly, instead letting the words he knew she'd wanted to hear echo dully in the now much colder space.

"Look Shepard, I - Vido was my life for twenty years, _twenty_ fucking years; I wasn't exaggerating when I said I see his goddamn face every time I close my fucking eyes – It's just goddamn hard to know the bastard was _right_ there and I didn't get a chance to shoot his ass."

Discolored eyes slid back to hers, and Shepard had more reason to acknowledge that this was a mistake - the mercenary mantle was back, his back was straight, his eyes displaying only small, trace amounts of the confusion she felt at whatever had passed between them.

Damn it, she could still feel his fingers on her skin, the rough tug of his lips on her own.  
She felt disgusted at what she'd done.

She watched him shift almost uncomfortably, realizing that this was as close to an apology as she was going to get and as close to him admitting, by not admitting, what had just happened.

Whatever this was, from her perspective it was done – no good could come of it, and he seemed to think as much.

Nodding in understanding, her orbs softened as she searched his, a calm ocean blue as opposed to their previous stormy blue-gray.

"Don't let it happen again."

She said firmly, a softer smile flickering briefly across her lips before she was Commander Shepard again. She gave him a curt nod and turned as though to leave, but stopped when she felt Zaeed's hand brush her arm, having gone the few steps to reach her; brows creased and eyes thoughtful.

"Shepard I …" He looked away, hand falling to his side, suddenly at a loss for words but prompted by the sudden feeling that it shouldn't end this way - he was callous enough to admit he was all for a quick fuck normally, but this, _this_ was different. He could feel it.

It irritated him to high hell.

"Massani...?" Her elegant brows drew together; hazy orbs flitting across scars and hidden facades in search of something.

When he finally uttered the singular, gruff word, the glitter of intrigue and speculation and _desire_ were apparent in his unique eyes.

"Thanks."

Her eyes narrowed, but a slow smile flickered into being as she watched the veteran mercenary, the mercenary that had killed hundreds, had survived six men restraining him to be shot in the head, turn and walk back to his normal post, leg and arms crossed as he stared out the airlock into empty space.

She left then, footfalls silent as she departed.

When Zaeed looked back to where Shepard had been, she was gone - only the taste of spice and iron, the scent of metal lingering hauntingly in the air, and the scattering of data pads and weapons were a testimony of her having been there at all.

With no one there to see, Zaeed Massani sank to the floor, an arm resting on his knee as he reflected. Shaking his head in disbelief, the mercenary turned to glare at his previously prized krogan helmet.

_Goddamn piece of -_

His head fell into his hands, fingertips massaging his temples.

"Damn if I don't need a drink."


	3. Confrontation

_Thank you for reading!  
Please review if you have any ideas for scenes and such, I plan on (hopefully)  
Following the chain of ME2 and the expand into my impression of what ME3 may be like,  
But I'm always open to some great plot ideas :3  
~_

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**Chapter 3**

A few weeks later, Shepard made a resigned, if not a relieved, announcement to inform the crew that there would be one day, and ONLY one day, of shore leave on the Citadel – leaving the impression that she wasn't thrilled about having to blow more smoke up the council's ass than there already was.

None of the imbeciles on the Council ever believed a word she said anyways.  
And though she'd had some small hope that Anderson would be able to make them see reason when she'd elected him to the Council, she hadn't been surprised at all to come back from death and find nothing changed.

She'd found over the years that the worst kind of disappointment wasn't disappointment at all, but impartiality. Commander Shepard didn't give a damn what the Council said anymore - only Anderson lent her words any weight, and what weight he carried was marginal.

At least she didn't feel like a nut-case when she talked to him.

Despite Anderson's continual support in her darkest hours, this, as with any other meeting with the rescued Council, wasn't going to be a shore leave _she'd_ be vastly enjoying.  
More the opposite. She'd rather be mucking through the slums of Omega than deal with political bullshit.

It made her sick.  
So she made her speech direct and simple.

"_Anyone with personal business should deal with it accordingly before we leave port – We may not be re-docking in Widow Space for some time after this."_

She'd paused, as though considering adding something more but thought better of it and signed off, leaving the crew to make jokes and discuss popular nightclubs and places to go amongst themselves.

There wouldn't be much time to do anything really, but for some reason, the Citadel was always a favorite spot for time off, perhaps due to the fact that it tailored to all tastes or that there was always some form of security ambling about to ward off wrong doing, Shepard didn't really care to know. She never asked and never had enough time to invest sentiment into the thought because though she and all her crew got along, splendidly really, she could never refer to herself as friends with any of them.

She had yet to get to know everyone personally on the Cerberus vessel, something she hoped to rectify as soon as possible.

Most of the crew had already formed their own knitted groups for outings – even Gardener and Chakwas pairing up occasionally to get drinks together (though that was admittedly a rather awkward stumbling upon in her opinion) wasn't _all _that surprising.

She wished she had more time to dedicate to her crew - she'd do what she could for them, but she always felt a gap that couldn't be dissolved simply by acquiescing to their requests. It always felt ... empty.

Which reminded her she owed Gardener an extended menu - she'd forgotten the last time they'd docked on the Citadel.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Shepard let out a sigh, feeling the soft, familiar hum of the ship's engines and Joker's inquisitive green eyes follow her as she stepped away from the communication unit.

"Cat got your tongue Commander? You know, 'cuz the whole not saying what's on your mind thing is kinda weird."

The pilot's tone was teasing as usual and Shepard had to smile despite herself – Joker certainly knew how to push buttons and push them _well_.

On any other ship his sarcastic banter could have landed him a court martial for insubordination, but on the Normandy, it was just another essential part of the crew. He was quite the morale booster really, and after all the low odds missions Shepard had the pleasure of living through, someone that could make even the bleakest of scenes appear painted in undertones of humor was a welcome relief.

Not that most suicide missions weren't hilarious in their own sick way if you looked at them on the premise that you'd actually _live_ through them, but well, that was a different matter. She'd lived through plenty of missions deemed suicidal only to be sucked out into space by her own ship being blasted into itty-bitty particles by a mythical race most people didn't believe in.

Figures.

What was supposed to be a clean-up job, a wipe-out of the scattered plots of geth still putting up a resistance after Sovereign crashed into the Presidium had turned into a nightmare, one she continued to live over and over and over again.

The last thing she'd have ever thought, as her lungs blazed for air and her retinas swelled, was that she'd wake up on a gurney pieced together haphazardly by the one organization she'd opposed all throughout her career - Cerberus.

Yeah, what a joke that was.  
She exhaled, feeling the pressure in her temples build.

Nearly every night she woke sweating, perspiration clinging to her skin, imagining death clawing its way up her wind pipe - the bitter bite of bile raking through her gut at the desperate tug of her muscles writhing beneath her flesh, lungs trying in vain to draw breath – to live.

The recollection of pivoting on the edge of insanity still made her heart thud painfully in her chest. No, Joker's humor was most certainly accepted aboard the Normandy.

The pilot had continued, either unaware of his Commander's thoughts or understanding enough not to bring it up as he returned his attention to the Normandy's controls, nimble fingers traveling swiftly over the mechanics with comfortable familiarity, guiding the ship expertly into Council space, voice pitching to the sarcastic, mocking tone he usually reserved for himself and situations he deemed suited - most of which centered around her.

"You're more of a 'let's shoot this guy in the kneecaps!' or a 'let's bash heads with this krogan to show dominance!' kinda Commander," He glanced up noticing her raised eyebrow; a sheepish grin spreading across his unshaved features.

"What? I heard about that - I mean, it's not like it's hard to miss a bruise the size of a crater either – with all due respect Commander." He added as an after-thought, grinning, emerald eyes flashing to her again.

She laughed softly, in retrospect, smashing her unprotected crania into a krogan's to make a point _really_ hadn't been one of her brightest ideas - even if it had helped Grunt's case. By the time they'd gotten the shuttle docked after completing the adolescent krogan's initiation into Clan Urdnot, she'd barely been able to see straight. She'd had one killer migraine and one angry medical doctor the next day.

Lips twitching in amusement at the memory, the Commander of the SR2 Normandy let her azure orbs flicker out to the dark void, considering, brows knitted in thought.

The Citadel loomed in the distance, a giant, luminescent umbrella enveloping the galaxy, tiny Alliance and Asari ships flitting across empty space – security had upped immensely since Sovereign's attack, but anyone worth their salt knew that even this increase in caution was nothing when it came to the Reapers.

If only the council would just _listen_ to her...  
Would just open their eyes, and believe she had absolutely _nothing_ to gain by lying ...

Her fists clenched unconsciously at her sides, this was going to be a long, bloody battle whether she had the support of the Council or not. It'd just help her sleep better at night knowing she wasn't the only one fighting the good fight, or so it was called. It sounded better than it really was.

"Oh and uh, on a side note Commander, you tend to have some rather unhealthy habits, you know that right?"

Joker broke her out of her momentary lapse, but she'd already started walking away, mind whirling around future matters, a hand waving in departure as she responded, a soft laugh echoing past quirked lips, "Thanks for the tip Joker, I'll be sure to keep that in mind next time I'm thinking about whether I chose the right career path."

The pilot looked over his shoulder, barely catching her brief wave before she disappeared. He shook his head ruefully as he brought the Normandy in close, preparing to open a channel to patch a request to dock.

The council might be right in one regard, Shepard _was_ crazy, but what they hadn't realized yet, was that it took crazy to save the galaxy and that it _meant_ something if she had a whole crew willing to do so right alongside her. They just didn't know it yet.

Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau turned his attention to Edi, who flickered to life as soon as he did so.

"Hey Edi, patch a request to the Citadel asking permission for the Normandy to dock."

The AI flickered different shades of blue before responding.

"Of course Mr. Moreau."

A cheery tune lilted against the remade hull as the flight lieutenant's fingertips flew across the keyboards, the only sound besides the gentle whoosh of panels being brought up and pushed away as the Edi complied with his request.

* * *

Zaeed growled as he stepped out of decontamination into the half light on the Citadel, dappled by the burnt oranges and the dark blue hues from the nearby store kiosks and advertisement boards, unconsciously brushing a calloused hand over his shoulder plate to dispel the illusion of prickling against his tanned skin.

Ever since the goddamned bug Sovereign crashed into the center of the presidium, security had made it mandatory that all arrivals needed to go through a decontamination process along with a weapons check, a precursory pat down, a check for a stick up your ass, and a few hard once overs which were not only goddamned ridiculous, but entirely unnecessary.

All it took was a critical eye and a feel for military strategy to realize just how lacking security was – most of this was just smoke and mirrors. You didn't have to be from a special tasks force or an assassin to spot holes in C-Sec safety regulations – their piss poor attempts at making the Citadel 'safe' were so blatantly obvious Zaeed could only wonder what nut job had installed them in the first place. In his opinion, regulations and laws were merely oiled illusions, backed by a few shitty M-15 Vindicators and heavy pistols true – but nothing when compared to a good fire fight with an Eviscerator and an M-920 Cain. Or another Jesse.

Damn did he miss that rifle.

Zaeed snorted, there was nothing stopping anyone from getting in if they _really_ wanted to – and he felt another twinge of sentimentality at the thought of Jesse being retired; she wouldn't have minded the wistful image of blowing through C-Sec skulls like watermelons.

Sidestepping the rest of the safety regulations (one of the few, nicer pluses that came with waving around an identification saying you were under the jurisdiction of a spectre), Zaeed sauntered out into the beginning of the Zakera ward, roughly elbowing a turian, lost in conversation with an asari, with a well placed "Watch it" before continuing on his way – heavy booted feet leading him towards the Dark Star Lounge for the much needed drink he'd promised himself a few weeks previous. The few weeks previous in which Shepard had placed her sweet mouth on his and had turned his ordered world of gun priming and coarse badassery uncharacteristically upside down.

He hated the fact that he still got a hard on when he thought about it.  
It irritated the shit out of him.

Growling, the grizzled mercenary stalked through the crowd, taking the stairs two at a time in the desperate urge to quell the hot clench in his gut with a few well placed bottles of hard liquor if only to erase the feel of her goddamn skin, the silky sensation of her tongue wrapping wetly around his, and the way she moved against him with a liquid grace and sensual prowess that made him think of twisted bed sheets and red furrows.

He swallowed thickly thinking about it.

In the weeks that had gone by, they'd avoided one another – she hadn't brought him along for any missions, and he'd switched meal times so that he got there obnoxiously early (on the premise to piss off Gardener, which had the positive affect of him getting his food _much_ earlier simply because the normally sarcastic chef wanted the mercenary's ass out of his mess in time for him to properly make food for everyone else), and because Shepard was almost always late for any meal – if she made it all; too busy involving herself in data and weapons tech to either fuck him and end whatever the hell this was, or to well – he didn't really know what.

Zaeed really wasn't relationship material; to him, relationships had as much novelty as a gunshot to the head – goddamn astounding due to the amazing adrenal pump at first, but bloody and longwinded as fuck, not to mention they left a sort of baggage that never really went away.

He swore under his breath, this wasn't like him at all; he should just wisen up and forget the whole thing and go back to his own organized chaos that revolved around the next headshot and the next krogan ass he needed to throw out an airlock because _that _was just fine and dandy, not like the shit he was wading in now – god-damn emotions.

When did they have the balls to show up in the first place?

The mercenary snorted to himself, resisting the urge to laugh outright – they were the damn problem! And Shepard had quite the way of making his rival the blue of her buddy Garrus' – freaking turian.

Shaking his head, the mercenary started inwardly, so lost in musings he'd ignored the footfalls coming his way until he'd found himself brought to a sudden halt by a manicured hand on his arm. Calloused fingers wrapped casually around his assault rifle as discolored orbs swept down to take in the much smaller, petite saleswoman - the saleswoman that had obviously not been thinking clearly before flagging him down as a potential sales victim.

Her eye lashes fluttered in a presumably attractive manner as she slinked her way coyly in front of him, making a point to brush her breasts against his arm as she passed by - lips curled in the assumption of a seductive smile.

It made her look like a varren in heat.

Then she spoke, and he seriously wished she hadn't. A volus could sound sexier saying "_Try our new product,"_ than this bitch – the only thing she had going for her were her assets and the zealous glint to make a sale. His stomach turned in disdain, and his eyes narrowed. Snarling, he wrenched his arm unkindly from her grasp, "If you want to fuck somebody over, find someone else bitch. I'm not goddamn interested."

Rugged lips twisted in disgust as she stumbled backwards gasping in surprise and flushing unattractively as she glared, hmphing in a way that emphasized her ample chest before she turned sharply on her heel without looking back. He watched as she stalked across the ward, head turning as she looked for someone else to assault, before locking her manicured talons on a nearby salarian – poor bastard.

Continuing on his way, fingers sliding along the rifle to further dissuade others from following the saleswoman's example, Zaeed found himself perturbed by the insinuation that he was letting his thoughts distract him from looking unapproachable – even with guns the wench had still come up to him, had even gone so far as to _touch_ him.

Purely unacceptable.

He grunted, attempting to dispel the reek of cloying perfume from his nostrils. Shepard never bothered to wear perfume. In a soldier's realm, there was next to no time for personal enhancements of any kind, and he knew enough by now that Shepard was a gun smoke and spice kind of woman anyways.

He preferred that too much for his liking.

Lengthening his stride with the increased desire to reach the club and drown out all thoughts of anything but where he needed to take a piss, he slowed as he passed a duo of krogan discussing the existence, or lack thereof, of fish in the presidium lakes.

He rolled his eyes as he continued on his way, the distant thud of music growing louder.  
Fucking krogan. Who bloody cared if the asari kept fish in their oversized pools or not?

Reaching the club in record time, Zaeed sidled up to the bar, sliding into a seat and flashing a sizable amount of credits to summon the turian barkeep before ordering one of the most expensive, and potent liquors.

His mind swept back to Shepard.

He didn't really know how to go about this, whatever this avoidance shit was – he was out of his element but he wasn't fool enough to think there wasn't significant risk in even considering what he was goddamn considering - _if_ she was even game at all.

With Shepard, whether you got the blade or the sheath was all a matter of how the blade was spun, not a matter of how badly he wanted to _use _her as a sheath.

A glass appeared in front of him and he downed it immediately without thinking, feeling the alcohol burn fiercely down his throat and settle in his gut, coiling in lazy circles. He tapped the counter and gestured for two more, downing the second as soon as it was set in front of him, running a hand through his cropped hair in angry frustration as he contemplated.

What in holy hell _did_ he want out of this?

He had asked Shepard that very same question and hell if he had expected the answer he'd gotten. Granted, they'd both back out of whatever the hell had happened between them fast enough. He was probably just grasping at bloody straws.

He swore again, attracting the attention of the barkeep who he waved off – he wasn't that bad yet. Another few glasses and yeah, maybe he would be swearing at more than Commander Shepard. It was hard enough trying to keep thoughts in line when it came to the damnable woman now, and something would have to be done about it, and soon, because he wasn't going to get fucking shot in the middle of combat because he'd gotten aroused seeing her bend over or got a glimpse of her ass as she disappeared over cover.

Even now it was difficult to dispel the image of that same, perfect ass in a completely different setting – bent over the surveillance table.

He groaned and wrapped his fingers around the cool glass, downing the third with little thought to the burn before ordering a bottle of some asari specialty - at this point the name meant nothing to him, deciding he didn't need some turian watching his inner musings on what he wanted to do to the goddamn spectre that had gotten him into this predicament.

And he wanted to do a lot of things, whether it was to strangle her or drag her into a back alleyway and show her what he could _really_ do, he wasn't sure just yet.  
The latter seemed to be giving him the most problems.

Standing, if a little stiffly, Zaeed paid his tab and grabbed the bottle the turian had placed in front of him, heading to a small alcove that was dark enough to suit his tastes and provided him with enough of a view that brooked not having to pay much attention – even getting drunk, old habits died hard.

Sidestepping a few drunks and a few intoxicated dancers, his motor skills as of yet unaffected, the mercenary settled himself heavily into his new seat.

All he wanted was to get drunk to the point he'd piss alcohol come morning.  
It was better than what he was doing now, goddamn tripping over bloody hormones as though he were just like Grunt - going through goddamn rut.

What he should really do, was entice some asari bimbo into the men's restroom and relieve all his problems regarding Commander Shepard between the bitches' blue thighs, but he'd spent enough of his time in the brief embrace of drunks and witless women in his younger years to know that the appeal was lackluster.

Drawing a hand down his scarred features distractedly, he plunked the bottle down with a dull thud, eliciting several glances from nearby patrons which he corrected with a few withering glares – he wasn't in the mood to correct them with a few well placed bullets. He'd get thrown out that way and he hadn't even started the bottle yet.

They seemed to get the point, lucky enough for them.

Satisfied that the other patrons were thoroughly entranced by their own beverages, he rooted around in a back pocket, withdrawing a decently sized switchblade with which he popped the top off the bottle of his drink, tucking the blade away before taking a few, long swigs, before leaning back against the wall, one rough hand still curled around the bottle's neck.

Much better.

He let himself sink into the alcohol, and the hazy pull of intoxication had just begun to blur the outer edges of his vision around the seventh or so swallow when a familiar voice dragged him from his alcohol induced stupor.

She'd left the ship hours before he, but she couldn't be through with the council already, could she?  
Azure hued eyes flickered over the club in search of her.  
Even getting drunk, the damn woman never seemed to leave him alone.

He found her at the opposite end of the Dark Star Lounge, her dynamic figure standing out amongst the intoxicated dancers.

She appeared to be having a conversation with a turian, her commanding tone carrying over the beat of the music and the sashaying bodies of asari and humans entwining around one another. What were they talking about? He pretended he wasn't straining to hear.  
Something about the presidium … and fish?

His muddled brain grappled for connection, he'd sworn he'd heard something about that recently...

He groaned when his saturated brain cells came up with the answer.  
_Of course_ Shepard would give a damn about whether or not there were fish in the presidium lakes.

Typical Shepard.

He continued to watch her, admiring the way her ass swayed as she talked with the turian, the fog of alcohol lifting as he did so. She was the most two-faced and intriguing woman he'd ever met – and he'd met quite a few. Even had a relationships with some of them before he'd cut himself off, but none could match her skill with a gun, nor did they possess her catlike prowess and subtlety of emotion that enabled her to get whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.

She could charm anything into a corner if she wanted too - or into bed.

Her conversation with the turian ended, and Zaeed watched, riveted by the way her brows furrowed in brief thought as she turned, fierce blue eyes immediately scanning the lounge as her hand fell automatically to the comfortable presence of the gun at her hip.

She would most assuredly see him.

He felt himself stiffen - this was not what he wanted.  
He didn't want to face her when he couldn't tell goddamn up from down if he'd wanted to (though he was nowhere near as wasted as he would have liked).  
Sure he could blast a hole point-plank through the nearest salarian head if he wanted to, but that didn't mean he could make fucking small talk.

It didn't take long for her to see him.

Shepard's eyes alighted on him and he glared, feeling the alcohol coil cruelly in his bloodstream. It had been twenty days since the last time they'd spoken to one another, not that he'd kept goddamn track or anything.

The hand on her pistol tightened briefly then fell, her gaze falling away as she began to stride around people, her aura automatically imploring people to part for her like the red sea - heading towards the exit.

She was goddamn leaving.

Zaeed's fist gripped the asari brand alcohol tightly, unsure whether to feel pissed or relieved. He didn't have time to consider it though, because Shepard hadn't departed at all, but had instead made a loop around the outskirts of the club, stopping at the bar to order something before sauntering her sweet ass his way.

She approached, and her eyes were the same stormy gray-blue from when she'd _kissed_ him. He swallowed thickly for the second time in half an hour, finding to his disappointment that alcohol did nothing to dissuade his stomach from clenching hotly as she got closer, the scent of armor and sweat, the arousing swirl of spice that was specifically Shepard making his mildly intoxicated senses reel.

Great.

"We need to talk Massani."

She wasn't coy, wasn't playing at anything – she simply sat down across from him, plunked down a bottle, and proceeded to pour him another drink. As if he wasn't going to need it. She poured one for herself, and he picked up the glass, downing it immediately, posture slightly wary before he nodded, discolored orbs searching her blue-gray ones.

He felt his heart begin to beat faster, and mentally shot ten krogan - hoping it'd kill the feeling.

It didn't.

"About goddamn time."

He had to be a masochist.


	4. Wants

_I've always seen Zaeed and Shepard as people who don't dance around things,  
Which is why everything seems to go fast because  
With them, it'd either be nothing or the ... something they don't really understand yet.  
Hopefully you can see what I mean. ^^_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 4**

Shepard had left as soon as the Normandy had docked on the Citadel, footsteps falling with pounding force on the gray marble floors as she swept decisively towards the closest rapid transit station that would take her to the presidium and Councilor Anderson's offices.

Every so often, she checked in just to let Anderson know what she was doing.  
It was more out of habit than anything else really, (seeing as his political prowess on the council held as much weight as a child's), but she liked to let him know regardless.

She knew it was pointless, knew that the council's blatant disregard was just another disappointment weighed down by actions that had no visible effect - a poignant stab of brutal truth that illustrated just how much good begetted good, but still she tried and tried again. If only to make Anderson feel that _someone_ was doing something.

It was all she could do at this point.

She'd found, unsurprisingly, that the universe didn't care if you saved the people in charge or even if you saved the entirety of galactic civilization.

It didn't give breaks or a pat on the back for a job well done - no, no the universe didn't really give a shit, and it had an even funnier way of getting you spaced before reviving you in the image of a raving lunatic – for who ever came back from the grip of death the same let alone sane?

She scoffed, like she'd be an exception.

The universe was just one gigantic expression of hilarious irony; a deadly tango of right and wrong that had the potential to split her at the seams and rip open every single failure that marked her career, her very existence even – if she let it. She would be the one to decide whether a trip off the deep end was worth it, and only her, but it was still there, a flickering temptation in the dark.

She knew better than to scrutinize it though, knew that sanity and insanity teetered on the amount of distance you kept from such thoughts, from people - she knew from watching comrades plummet into the sickening throes of death; had found enlightenment in unseeing eyes and blood flecked lips, that the potency of truth was poison.

She'd never thought she'd experience it firsthand though, not like this.

No amount of preparing had ever readied her for death, had readied her for those few moments of utter agony, the spiraling descent into darkness as her lungs tore themselves to bloody, gasping shreds within her chest.

When she skirted around the open sore that was her death, she found that she couldn't face the heady sensation of drifting through the frigid depths of space, bloody tears sliding down cold cheeks as blood vessels burst behind her eyelids – utterly helpless in the vacuum of space.

It was as though the reigns of control had been jerked from her stiff fingers to mock her, to show her that she no longer held sway in the direction of her life, that she never _had_ held her own fate in her hands; that each thought was void in the huge schema of stars and exploding planets – that the _value _of owning the very thing that had kept her going, was now nothing but an empty husk.

Shepard was deprived of the control she thrived upon, and she hated it.

Heavy, armored footfalls silenced as she reached the terminal, leather gauntlets clinging to heated, clammy flesh as she summoned the cab, brushing a few wisps of hair from her pale features unconsciously as she waited.

Death had changed her.  
Perhaps that was why she so loathed presenting herself before the council now.

Two years hadn't changed anything for them; it took two minutes of her time to realize that they were just as blind as before, concerned merely with appearances in an effort to make the galaxy sigh with a false sense of security while they brushed away the pieces of the upheaval caused by the attack on the Citadel.

What was there to fear when _real_ action was being taken to curb the remaining geth resistance? They were Saren's geth after all, and he was dead, as dead as dead could get, and with him gone there was _nothing_ left to be afraid of. No, _no_ monsters shifting in the shadows with assault rifles, _no_ deadly ships just waiting to blast apart the core of galactic civilization, no, nothing like a giant fleet of genocidal machines lurking in the far distance - there were simply just _no _such things.

She sighed.

No, the council was just a bunch of old fools keeping themselves busy putting bandaids on scratches without regard for the punctured kidney.  
In dealing with the mere tip of the iceberg, the council had fallen into the trap of falsehood, far too blindsided to face the real danger that lurked beneath.

So they smeared her name instead because there was too much risk involved in goddamn believing in her. She, the one who had chosen to save their asses in the first place. Now she was a quiet kept secret, forbidden to walk the presidium and spread her blasphemy in the eventuality that would be her mental breakdown – or so the council thought.

It would have been sad if it wasn't so unbelievably pathetic.  
She shook her head. Politics. What a bunch of bullshit.

She vaguely wondered if breaking a few noses would help set things straight for the people supposedly in charge of galactic matters but turned it down regretfully - salarians and turians really didn't have noses to break anyways.

Damn.

The car had reached the transit station by this point and Shepard had looked over her shoulder, azure eyes drifting mutely over asari and salarian, human and turian in solemn thought. Too bad near obliteration hadn't changed the council's outlook – so many lives could be saved, could _still_ be saved...

Most of these people would die the instant the reapers went on the offensive and none, not one would see it coming.

* * *

When she'd sat down across from Zaeed, mind still whirling in exasperation from her meeting with the council, she immediately thought there were a few things wrong.

First, she should have sat closer to him, and second, she should have bought stronger alcohol. She had no real plan, no inclination of what to say to the callous mercenary after their impromptu session of rough sexual exploration a few weeks previous, but had been drawn to his small alcove precisely because she knew it couldn't be avoided forever.

Shepard was a woman of action.

Instead, she'd gone to the bar and purchased a recommended bottle, booted feet rapping against the tiled floor as she'd stalked towards him – she was done skirting around the issue of Massani and herself, she skirted around enough things when it came to the gaping hole of those two missing years.

She would face this one.

As she approached, his discolored gaze was settled on her uncomfortably, the dark shadows of the club throwing his features into harsh lines, large hands gripped with disconcerting ease around the neck of the bottle he'd already nearly drained, vividly reminding her of that same hand curled around her pale throat, their feverish skin brushing together. The brutal way he took what he wanted.

The way she _liked_ it.

She was surprised he'd even agreed to the fact that they needed to talk, to do _something_ in regards to the tangible tension that seemed to swirl around them. Maybe she was the only one that seemed to notice, but she'd been a marine for far too long to not be able pick up on tense and apprehensive body language when she saw it_._

And there was plenty.

Plunking a glass in front of him, she poured out the alcohol silently, sliding it towards him without looking at him, their fingers brushing briefly before she replicated the action for herself. Picking up her own glass, she downed the faintly violet liquid in one ruthless swallow, and forced herself to suppress the urge to cough it across the table.

Alright, maybe she didn't need stronger liquor; one down.

They kept this up in silence for several drawn-out moments, each downing a few more glasses of sparkling liquid, the tension easing into something akin to smoldering kindling as their eyes traced one another's, blue-grey to discolored azure.

Zaeed's brows drew together as he set the bottle, which he'd just finished, down before leaning back, the corded muscles of his arms flexing and the fitted black tunic of his shirt stretching enticingly over his chest. He was only partially armored, habit she assumed.

He was older than her by nine years, but that didn't mean he didn't still have sexual appeal. No, it was the very idea of pushing such a hardass, bastard of a mercenary over the edge that appealed to Shepard so much – made her even consider talking about it at all.

He wasn't Kaiden.

Discolored eyes narrowed, perhaps reading some of her impressions as she flashed him a feral smile, her own ocean blue orbs glittering with intrigue and speculation, goading him. He shifted, his knee brushing against hers beneath the table as he leaned forward, voice both callous and amused.

"You're one hell of a crazy bitch, Shepard."

Her lips quirked, fingertips trailing wet lines lazily across the condensation on the glass bottle as she responded to him.

"If I wasn't, would I be doing any of this?"

She gestured vaguely, arms encompassing the mission and the Citadel while she brushed her knee back against his intentionally – illustrating just what else she meant.

The veteran merc shook his head, a dark laugh lilting past pliable lips as he seemed to delve into her thoughts, stormy occuli warring with hers, the music seemingly dulled by the small bubble they'd created from sexual undercurrents, two combatants sizing each other up, hinting towards a move before retreating – brushing just slightly against one another before disappearing.

Shepard _really_ knew how to play this game, even if it wasn't a game any longer.

"I don't know whether you're a goddamn fool or one hell of a woman."

He finally said, tone laced with what she believed to be begrudging admiration swirled with raw interest, (unless that was the beginning buzz of alcohol talking), as he crossed his tanned arms on the table, scarred crania tilted to the side.

"What's your game, Shepard," he intoned, growling as his knuckles whitened and her heart beat faster.

What _was_ her game?

She didn't know any more than when she'd first initiated all of this, had first gone and set the kaleidoscope of change to spin and land on the dizzying array that was Zaeed Massani and the promise that seemed inadvertently available in the set of his differently hued eyes - a promise of harsh bite marks and rough hands against her skin and the contradiction of muscle overlaid by silky skin.

She'd processed some of her thoughts on the matter as she'd directed the Normandy from station to station, targeting Eclipse mercs or Blue Suns on distant planets with elaborate names while accruing data and supplies but hadn't really come to any sort of conclusion.

She'd tried relationships in the past and shied away from them, most were mistakes and utterly pointless – no one had ever really challenged her or pushed her, merely held her up in some moronic, lofty belief that she was a trophy to be idolized - a hero like Conrad Verner thought.

It made her feel disgusted.

She'd nearly put a bullet in the last man's gut who'd considered her nothing more than a mark of achievement, (apparently thinking a pat on the shoulder was some sign of favoritism), and others she'd had to resort to more elaborate schemes in order to remove them from the proximity of her person – too goddamn clingy.

Then there was Kaiden …  
But he was something else, a something that had made no move to contact her since her return to the Citadel. She felt guilt begin to gnaw in her gut, but shoved it back ruthlessly – if he had wanted to see her, he would have been here. He knew she was alive. He knew where to find her if he had wanted to …

Zaeed was different and he was most certainly not Kaiden.

During the odd missions and downtime when she had the spare time to think, let alone sit down, Shepard had gone over what had happened between her and the violent, yet sentimental mercenary. It was hazy, an image usually fogged by the steam her brain provided in retrospect of their tongues dueling and the hot press of their bodies, the way his growling hummed its way through his broad chest and the cold steel of the surveillance at her back was a sharp contrast to the man's heated skin, but an image nonetheless.

She was wading in unfamiliar territory. Shepard was direct. She never went the roundabout way to make it easier, never charged into the thick of things without some gist of a plan or a damn good sniper at her back.

She went with the truth.

"Damned if I know, Massani," she let out with a whoosh, letting her hand fall from the bottle, almost all the condensation gone from the swirling paths of her fingers.

Azure eyes flickered away briefly as she considered, watching the sway of a clearly intoxicated asari sashay her way around a human male who looked entirely intoxicated but not from the consumption of liquid substance.

She didn't know which one she'd rather be at the moment.

Zaeed's knee brushed against hers again and stayed this time, drawing her startled blue orbs back to his. His expression was all but unreadable except for his eyes, which burned and branded her exposed skin, sliding up and around the curves of her arms, the elegant stalk of her porcelain throat, smoldering as they rejoined the languid simmer of her own.

The mercenary's voice was hoarse, rougher than usual and it grated on the sudden need for her lips to be against his, like turian plating against metal as he spoke.

"Then maybe we should find out."

He stood, the chair scrapping against the floor as he shoved it backwards, nodding towards the doorway of the club, eyes never breaking the hungry hold he had on hers.

Shepard felt with sudden, cold clarity, that this moment could change everything or nothing. She could reject it all right here, reject the callous mercenary and the rough appeal she was so drawn to without any repercussions besides the odd awkward moment every now and then – Zaeed wasn't the type of man to misunderstand her reasons either.

But it was that swirl of understanding that brought her to her feet, the dilation of black pupils as she stood that testified his apprehension of her agreeing, a predatory smile flickering across her lips as she stalked before him, leaving the empty bottles and drained glasses to their haphazard stasis on the table.

He wasn't Kaiden.

"I guess we should."


	5. Assumptions

_For all those confused (previous followers of this story),  
I've struggled with how I wanted to write this fic ...  
I've finally decided that I will follow the main gist of ME2,  
And then get into a Part 2 that includes my impressions of what  
ME3 is going to be like (ideas, whatever). I ended up feeling that the story jumped  
Drastically (which it did) because of my desire to get to that Part 2 before putting enough meat  
Into probably the most important parts leading up to it. For that, I ask my forgiveness in  
Making this story leap about so much. I'm set on my path now though,  
So hopefully it feels better._

_All reviews are much appreciated, though I try to write this for myself as well as all of you who read it.  
Zaeed thanks you all :D_

* * *

**Chapter 5**

A growl rumbled in his chest, and her amused laughter echoed softly as they'd disappeared through the crowd together, the thick beat of the music beginning to fade as they made their way with military ease amongst the swaying and tilting bodies.

By the time they'd reached a deserted alleyway, Zaeed wasted no time in slamming Shepard against a wall, his alluring mouth covering her startled gasp before it was formed, tongue finding hers, brushing forcefully against her teeth, her palate – hands slipping beneath the loose folds of her civilian shirt.

He broke the kiss to set more on her jaw-line, teeth marring exposed flesh as she moved against him, her hands wrapped in the tangles of his cropped hair on their own accord, raking his scalp. Her hands fisted tighter and he growled again, unique eyes glowing in the half light as he looked up, glittering violet in the orange hues of the lights above as they panted.

He couldn't keep his hands off her.

"I can't make promises to you Shepard," he said seriously, eyes tracing the swirl of grey, the way her bruised mouth curled and taunted him, the way he wanted to make her beg him to do things to her.

His hands were poised on her hips, body angled against hers in the shadows of the nearby Citadel grown trees, blocking her from view as he looked away, expression hooded. He heard her laugh again, softer this time, and a slim hand drew down the rough stubble of his cheek, forcing him to meet her gaze, a soft smile pulled across her damnably perfect mouth.

"I never asked you too, Massani."

She kissed him, slowly then, and he forgot everything but the feel of her against him.  
The Normandy pulled out of dock six hours later.

* * *

Shepard and Zaeed had gone their separate ways shortly after they'd come to the conclusion that whatever was going on between them didn't matter – there were no expectations. It was a simple, unspoken agreement that it was to be uncomplicated – stress relief at most, an acknowledgment that they had something at worst.

And so it was that Zaeed found himself sitting in the mess hall, a wry expression pasted on his grizzled and scarred features as Gardener griped about the garbage food he was forced to serve the crew.

"Now Cerberus … bless their poor little souls," he added as an afterthought before going on, "they know how to make good use of their credits, I tell you!"

The cook and janitor exclaimed exuberantly as he paced the confines of the kitchen, voice loud and filled with pride as he continued.

"Our Commander Shepard is proof enough of that! But there must not be one damn chef among them Cerberus goons if they expect us to survive off this poor excuse for food!"

He gestured with the metal ladle he'd been shining, encompassing the cabinets and the small inlet that was his domain.

"I'm good, but I'm no miracle worker Massani. Expecting us to eat like low level soldiers …as if we don't have an important mission to accomplish, pah!"

The chef's thick eyebrows came together in intense concentration as he finished wiping down the long handled spoon, before setting it down with a sigh.

"In my day, it meant something for people to eat right. Not this garbage I'm forced to serve now …"

He shook his head morosely, picking the ladle up and placing it back on the small metal hook over the kitchen cabinets.

"No wonder the crew has indigestion!"

Zaeed snorted from across the room, watching the burly form of the Normandy's cook bend down and rifle through the cluttered cabinets after a moment of pensively shaking his head. "You're in the position to know."

The chef glared at him from around the giant pot he'd dragged out from under the sink and had begun to lug onto the countertop.

"Ha ha ha. Funny. Just because I'm the janitor _AND_ the cook, doesn't mean I know _everyone's_ dirty secrets … if you know what I mean."

The elder man laughed to himself as he set the pot down with a whoosh of breath, dusting off his hands with a grimace before shooting the veteran mercenary a look.

"You know Massani, you're not half-bad when you're not up my ass." The solo chef of the Normandy grinned at him across the mess where Zaeed was sitting, legs propped on the table in front of him.

"You're as bad as one of them … whatcha-ma-call-its, them _things_ that pester people all day and make life bloody living hell … but ah well, you're alright." His face scrunched up comically as he looked up at the ceiling, hoping to derive some sort of answer from it, while tapping his chin thoughtfully with an index finger.

"Aw hell, you get the point."

The older chef shot Zaeed another ear to ear grin before returning to rummage through the draws and cabinets. He eventually found what he was looking for and straightened, filling a pitcher with water before dumping it into the pot several times.

"You're still an ass."

Zaeed laughed deeply, dropping his feet to the ground and leaning against the table toward the other man. "And I assume your job as a shit cleaner gives you plenty of experience to judge that too, ey Gardener?" His lips were quirked as the face of the chef's turned to a scowl as he adjusted the heat on the pot in front of him.

"Pah! Don't be so quick to pass judgement – after all, _who_ has the decision on whether or not to wash their hands after they're done with their other duties?"

The chef's face was alight with amusement as he pointed to himself, jabbing a long pointed knife at his chest in emphasis. "Me. Just don't tell the Commander."

Zaeed snorted as Gardener pulled out a ragged towel and began wiping down the counter. The elder man's back was turned as he poked around for plates simultaneously, beginning to stack them in an ordered fashion on the narrow space as he continued, "You know Massani, I wouldn't want to be on any other Cerberus vessel, our Commander Shepard is the finest out there, and let me tell you … what she's doing, is better than anything those mambie-pambies on the Citadel could ever do. Even came all the way down here herself to find out what we needed!"

He glanced back over at the hardened mercenary, already glowing at the thought of making a 'home-cooked meal' for the ship's crew.

"That's why I'm preparing all of this you know, 'cuz soon as she's done makin' the rounds she'll be right down to hand me all the fresh grub I asked for - said she was getting it today."

He gestured at the pot that was slowly boiling water.

"I thought I'd make a hearty stew for the crew, their poor bellies have been lacking a decently cooked meal for ages now!"

The Cerberus chef shook his head, oblivious to the fact that Zaeed had become quiet after what he'd said, too entranced by the prospects of proving his worth as a chef and not just a janitor to notice the suddenly withdrawn expression on the former Blue Sun's leader.

It'd only been several hours since he and Shepard had left one another's companionship, merging into the crowd and disappearing on last minute errands and quests before the Normandy was meant to leave dock. Granted, he'd returned to the club and finished off another asari-made bottle of liquor, but nonetheless …

He figured he'd just be an ass as usual.  
Hell, it was a lot simpler that way.

Gardener hummed loudly in the background to some irish tune Donnelly must have taught him, breaking into the occasional off-key vocal as Zaeed considered leaving or staying.

It shouldn't be awkward anymore after their agreement but … the mercenary still felt a strange sense of foreboding. Nothing in life ever came this goddamn easy, even if it was just for a damn good time. From what he knew of Shepard, first hand and otherwise, she had so many layers to her she'd beat whatever onions Gardener could ever cook up.

It was an uneasy feeling – something Zaeed wasn't used to feeling.  
After all, why the hell should he care?

He'd wanted the opportunity to fuck Shepard, and this was the best shot, if ever, he'd have of getting that. He shook his head inwardly, he really didn't give a damn about what Shepard was, or was not, thinking. If he had permission to accost her in the elevator if they happened upon each other at the same time, then damned if he wouldn't.

Gardener broke his thoughts.

"Hey Massani! Can you get your ass upstairs and see what's taking the Commander so long? The water is almost boiling and I wanna have all this set up as a surprise for the crew by eighteen hundred. Boy will they be thrilled! No more tube paste for dinner tonight!"

Zaeed stood, the chair scraping the floor irritably as he gave Gardener the finger, who laughed heartily.

"I'll take that as a yes."

* * *

He could still hear Gardener in the background before the elevator doors shut in around him, sealing out all sound. It hummed faintly to life, and he leaned back against the opposing wall, arms crossed as the elevator began its slow incline to the next level. The AI consol was the only other thing in the enclosed space, and his eyes drifted to it, realizing that the being contained within could do a much better job of hunting down an elusive spectre than he could.

"Edi, tell Shepard Gardener wants to see her down in the mess."

Like hell he was going to be a messenger boy, what else did you have an artificial intelligence for if not to tell it to do things? He really had to take a piss anyways, and Shepard could be anywhere. Might as well talk to the salarian while he was on the Command Deck though, he had an idea on how to improve the blast radius and impact prowess of the inferno grenades they'd made while he was sitting around for the past twenty days, and he wanted the scientist's opinion.

The man was brilliant, but an incessant chatter.  
He'd see if it was plausible and leave before he got sucked into a conversation on space time continuums or the krogan genophage or some other such shit. Zaeed wasn't as interested in how things worked, just how they performed.

The blue orb of the AI appeared in front of him momentarily, lighting up the dim space.

"Of course , would you also like me to inform Commander Shepard you wish to speak with her?"

Zaeed had the grace to look flabbergasted.

"What? No, why the hell would you think I wanted to talk to Shepard?"

He glared accusingly at the pulsing intelligence, watching as it flickered and considered his words. AI's always unnerved him, and this one was no exception – too goddamn perceptive for their own good.

"I merely assumed that any unresolved issues revolving around you and the Commander would be solved in a desire to talk to her, this has been the first you've made mention of her in quite awhile after all. I record that you have not mentioned, or talked to, Commander Shepard in twenty and two fourth cycles since your last meeting in the Cargo Hold. If you'd like, I can inform Yeoman Chambers and she can – "

"No!"

He cut the AI off abruptly, gritting his teeth in order to keep from smashing the consol in front of him.

"No, I don't want you to inform Shepard or the goddamn Yeoman. What in god's name gave you that idea?"

Edi paused, and Zaeed could have swore she truly sounded apologetic when she said, "My apologies, but in my study of humans I have discovered that after an extended period of time in which people do not converse with one another, they wish to speak after a certain allotment of time. It is in my understanding, that it is … therapeutic."

Zaeed snorted. Talking to Shepard, therapeutic? Pah! He'd have a more therapeutic time listening to an Elcor choir than talking to Shepard. Maybe AI's weren't as perceptive as he thought.

"Yeah well, if I want to go wax goddamn nostalgia, I'll find Shepard myself, alright?"

The ping of the elevator sounded and he uncrossed his arms as the door began to slide open.

"Understood, my apologies."

The AI disappeared as he stepped out into the CIC and made his way down the corridor. Bloody machines, who knew talking to one could give you such a fucking headache?

* * *

He arrived back to the elevator in time to meet Shepard and Jacob Taylor waiting for the elevator together, engaged in conversation. He acknowledged the dark skinned man with a curt nod, who responded with a "Massani," before continuing his conversation with their Commander.

Zaeed's eyes lingered on their body language, noting that Shepard at least appeared comfortable in the man's presence. He frankly didn't know what to make of the man himself, but he seemed alright … even if Cerberus wasn't to be trusted. He'd killed enough Cerberus mercenaries, operatives, scientists and the like to know that they were a messed up bunch, no matter what branch they came from – terrorists the lot of them in his opinion.

Not that Shepard had much choice in employer at the moment though – no one else was stepping up to offer a hand to help save the bloody universe.

Hah! And here he was right along side them when he should be using all the credits he'd accumulated over the years to drink himself into an oblivious stupor. He snorted inwardly; credits and a hell of a galactic shit show could really change someone's mind.

Goddamn Cerberus.

"I know a few people in the Alliance who owe me a few favors," Taylor was saying, shrugging almost imperceptibly.

"It'll be worth the effort to get in contact with them if we can get a hold of the prototype they were working on. The last Normandy got cut up like butter when the Collectors hit her." He shook his head, looking at Shepard far too appreciatively for Zaeed's liking.

"I still don't know how Cerberus managed to bring you back from … you know, all that Commander," he shook his head again, "but I'll request access to Cerberus databases' to see if I can track down where they were working on it."

Zaeed cut in, "You make it sound like some big goddamn mission to track down only the biggest flop in Alliance brass," he said laughing gruffly, eyes drifting back and forth between the Cerberus operative and Shepard, "Only all of bloody Omega knows about the Alliance's prized prototype – little good it did 'em though, ey? With no goddamn ship to install it on."

He laughed deeply then, shaking his head as Jabob folded his arms in annoyance.

"Yeah well, all the more reason to give it to us then. There's no other cruiser out there that's going to face down a potential battalion of Collector vessels willingly, let alone face anything tough enough to test it out."

Shepard jut into the conversation finally, "You mean to tell me it's never been tested?" Her brows were arched, a wry smile pulling at the corners of her lips as the elevator opened and they followed her in, Jacob standing to the right of her, back straight while Zaeed slouched against the left wall, arms crossed.

"Won't be the only time we're going to be the test subjects for something, Commander. Once Professor Solis get's that anti-toxin for the Collector venom ready, the ship's armor will be the last thing we'll be worrying about if it doesn't work."

Shepard laughed, "true," she said, exhaling loudly as the door whooshed open and Jacob stepped out, catching the eye of Miranda across the mess hall, whose eyes narrowed at him and then averted abruptly, facial features souring as she turned and disappeared into her office.

"I'll let you go," their Commander was saying, blue eyes knowing as they flit between the two Cerberus employees, "looks like you have some explaining to do … for whatever reason. Let me know what you find out, and send me a requisitions request when you know what we'll need to interface the new armor with the Normandy."

Jacob smiled wryly, "Yeah thanks Commander, with Miranda you never know what kind of explaining you need to do …"

Zaeed made a sound in his throat, "And here I thought that was just the engines making all that goddamn noise."

Shepard burst out laughing, and Jacob took a step back unable to hide the look of utter horror and embarrassment from his normally stoic face. The whole situation had caught the attention of the entire mess hall, and Zaeed thought the darker skinned man must be thanking his lucky stars his skin was dark enough to hide the flush that should've been present.

"What? No! Miranda and I aren't like that!" He ran a hand behind his head, sheepishly as Shepard caught her breath and some of the lines of stress that seemed to have been following her the past several days fled.

"He's just being an ass Jacob." She said smiling, "…unless there _is _something going on between you two," she teased, and it was Zaeed's turn to start laughing as the man spluttered, clearly not prepared for Shepard to join in. Maybe not all Cerberus lackeys were so bad after all.

Gardener called over to them, saving the operative any explanations or possibly denials as he exclaimed in joy over the food list Shepard presented to him. She was having people bring the parcels down.

The smell of gumbo melded the rest of the crew together an hour later, and Zaeed thought that if Shepard could mold the crew around her so well this early, perhaps the galaxy did have a hell of a shot.

* * *

_All previous chapters have been updated!  
_


End file.
